The Dead Lady
by Stan.to.the.death
Summary: The life of Bathilda Bagshot. Orphaned, this well-known historian in the wizarding world did not have an easy start to life. Her talents for History of Magic were evident from the early stages of her education. This story is interesting and a well-written read (I hope!) Note: mild triggers in chapters 2 & 3. Disclaimer: I do not own the books on which it is based. T for violence.
1. The Start

Hi, hope you enjoy this story. As said in the description, this contains minor triggers early on, so if this may affect you please READ CHAPTER 1 then SKIP TO CHAPTER 4 (which, incidentally, is currently non-existent. Sorry. But it will be at some point!)

Please tell me what you think of the story by leaving comments!  
I should warn you that I don't come online very often so updating and replying to comments may be a little stalled – sorry!

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The Dead Lady  
**1 – The Start**

The baby lay out in the cold.

Where were its parents?

It was sleeping quietly. Then the cold became unbearable and it opened its eyes, then its mouth as it started to cry. Her wailing pierced the silent night, but her parents never came.

It was New Years Eve, and a blanket of snow lay on the icy ground, and she was only a few days old. She would surely die if someone didn't come soon.

But no one heard her cries  
And no one came for her.

At the graveyard in Godric's Hollow, in an alcove around the side of the church, she cried herself to sleep. She cried herself into an everlasting darkness.

It was not a place usually visited at a happy time like this, when people were preoccupied with getting drunk in blaring club or pubs, or else making idol chat at private parties in warm homes, or blacked out at the side of the street. But as the baby girl drifted into an oblivion which she could not be rescued from, someone saw her.

The kind elderly lady held her in her coat and took her to the Muggle police, but the baby was claimed by no one.

The police were talking quietly about social services and care homes, but the elderly woman picked her up, and took her home, casting a silent Confundus Charm on the guards outside the station.


	2. The Death of the Carer

Time skip – 10 years later. Please tell me what you think of the story!

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The Dead Lady  
**2 – The Death of the Carer**

Bathilda was sitting by her mother's hospital bed in St Mungo's.

It wasn't her real mother, but it was the kind heart that raised and loved her who was lying on life support. Bathilda was 10 years old. But her mother (who wasn't actually her mother) was very old. She had always refused to reveal to Bathilda what her real age was before, afraid that the little girl would worry about when she was going to die. Now Bathilda knew. It said so on the little white board above her bed. 97.

That was old, even with the magical remedies of St Mungo's. Bathilda's carer was dying. And there was nothing she could do about it.

She was stirring her sleep. She wouldn't wake up. She was alive, but her energy levels were low. This was how she would die. Asleep. Peaceful.

"Don't go. You can't leave me." But Bathilda knew, even as she said this, the she could leave her. And she was going to.

The Healer came to check on her.

Her chest was heaving deeply.

The Heeler avoided Bathilda's eye, but Bathilda could see the alert in hers. She hastily changed the potion in the feeder to a violent blue one. Her heart began to flurry with panic, and she grasped her mother's hand.

The old women in the hospital bed let out a flurrying breath. Her chest raised, then fell.

Bathilda waited for it to rise again, but it didn't. Not straight away.

"I love you, Mama."

Her chest raised one last time as the lady took one final shuddering breath. "I love you too, sweetheart."

The Heeler looked at Bathilda pitifully, checking a limp wrist for a pulse. "I'm sorry. She's gone. There's nothing we can do."

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Bathilda lay on the cold ground by where her mother found her 10 years ago. A particularly sharp brick was digging into her back but she stayed there. She wouldn't cry. Not anymore than she already had. Her mother's life hadn't been as good as it could have been, but it had got better, worth living, when Bathilda came into it. Her mother had made Bathilda's happiness her priority, having suffered in her own past, and would want Bathilda to celebrate her life, not mourn it.

When her mother first told Bathilda the story of how she came to find and rescue the lost baby in the snow, Bathilda had thought it was the sweetest, saddest, most beautiful story she had ever heard. It was destiny, that's what Mama had told Bathilda. And Bathilda knew it was. But now, right now, she knew this wasn't. Mama wasn't supposed to die. Ever. She should have lived on until the end of life on Earth, witness the day of the apocalypse.

Bathilda smiled wryly into the snow to herself. Apocalypse. That Muggle theory that is never really going to work out. But Bathilda should have realised before, like she was realising now, that Mama was never going to live to witness the apocalypse … the apocalypse would be because of her death.

Now.  
Right now.

But it wasn't. Why wasn't it happening? Why wasn't everyone on earth mourning Mama's death right now, why were there no natural disasters happening, why was everyone just being so … normal?

_The world won't be the same without her though._

Bathilda's mind was stubborn, but at the same time unsure of her opinion. The world wouldn't be the same without her. It was a hopeless case anyway. Destiny is wrong. Destiny doesn't exist. Destiny hates people…. What to think?

There, in the snow, where it all started in the first place, the memories of their time together washed over her.  
There, in the snow, where a crying baby once lay, a tear slide down the cheeks of a crying 10-year-old.

What to do now?

The clock was ticking and Bathilda was drumming her fingers absent-mindedly to its beat on the table.

This was her home.

But she wouldn't be able to stay here.

Mama was known to many of the villagers in Godric's Hollow, and they would know of her death soon enough. After the Ministry had intervened Bathilda would surely be put into care. An orphanage. Maybe get foster parents. Maybe get adopted.

But Bathilda didn't want any of that. She wanted Mama. Who was unobtainable.

Bathilda hadn't eaten for three days. She had been in a daze of concern, and now grief. Her stomach had been crying out for food, but she wasn't hungry. Her mind had been whirring with thought, but she couldn't think. Her heart had been aching with love, but she had forgotten how to love.

Except for love her mother. She would never forget that.

Bathilda was just 10 years old – she couldn't look after herself. Well, society would think so. The Ministry would think so. But maybe she could. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe she didn't need to listen to those views, those control-freaks, those people who couldn't save her mother, who weren't even mourning her, who may as well have killed her…

No, Bathilda was getting carried away. It wasn't their fault. People die of old age all the time. No one wanted her mother dead – no one could have – that heart was too kind, too caring.

Bathilda pushed aside these thoughts as much as she could. She knew they were unfounded. She didn't want to drive herself insane.

This was merely the blaming phase. It is common to those who have suffered a loss.

So what to do?

Her train of thought was swimming in tedious circles.

She wouldn't be taken away.

She couldn't stay.

If she stayed, she would be forever haunted by grief, and she would indeed be taken away.

But she would be forever haunted by grief anyway, whatever she did.

Only one option remained. She would run away. Leave. Survive on her own.

But would it be worth it? Fading out of society in favour of struggling to keep herself alive?

So, what if there was another option… Stay and wait for officials to 'collect' her, run away or…

…Or join her mother.


	3. Decision & Action

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The Dead Lady  
**3 – Decision &amp; Action**

The prospect both terrified and thrilled her.

The third option: death.

Her own death.

Suicide.

No more grief, no more worry, no more hurt, no more decisions.

No more prying governing bodies, no more people thinking they know what's best for Bathilda, pretending they understand how she feels, pretending they're sorry for her loss, pretending that they too had cared for her mother.

No more care. No more feelings.

No more life.

And, if an afterlife did exist, a possible reunion with her mother, in a pleasantly careless place.

Bathilda wondered, as countless humans, Muggle and magical alike, had done before her – what is it like to die? What does it feel like? Only those who had died would know, and (coincidently) no one had lived to tell the tale. Funny how that works, isn't it?

This was Bathilda's own choice.

Though she was young, she was wise. Her mother had taught her realism. Her mind was mature (even if not as well-learned) as that of a person much older than her.

Choice One was out.

She considered running away. It would be hard. She could attempt pure survival, camping in a forest, scavenging for food and resources…she would not last long. And what would be the point? Alternatively, she could attempt to blend into the Muggle community – take on a new identity, attempt to blend in and live amongst them… but she was a mere 10-year-old, and in the Muggle community would lie the same fate as the wizarding world; she would be found and taken on by a council, then referred to an orphanage. Why should Bathilda try to uptake a new life and face the struggles of hiding her magical ability when she could face what was here for her without the latter?

Bathilda's mind was pulsing.

This was it.

The choice was made.

But what remained was the question of how to come about it?

It was, and is (as I am sure you will agree, dear reader), an opinion accepted by most ordinary people that a more desirable way to die would be without pain, or at least with as little as possible. It is of the human nature to avoid pain, and to avoid death – evidence of this is the existence of reflexes. If you were to place your hand on an extremely hot object, your body's reflex would be to pull it away, as soon as possible. It is an automatic response. Electrical impulses would be carried along neurones to your central nervous system, which, via the brain, would send impulses back along neurones to the muscles which then bring about the reaction.

It can be argued, therefore that suicide and self-harm is a defiance of human nature.

Bathilda had decided to defy this. And she had decided to defy reflexes. She had decided to defy the ordinarily accepted opinion that dying with minimal pain was a more inviting concept than the opposite.

Bathilda wanted to feel her death.

She was a realist. She wanted to feel the pain of her dying, she wanted to know, in all entirety, that she was dying. She wanted her own end to consist of physically feeling the excruciating emotional pain brought on by her mother's.

To her, it all made sense.

But how to do it?

Unexplainably, she had an instinct that she should do it in an entirely Muggle manner. In the name of her mother, using magic felt improper. Besides, she was underage, so she had the trace on her, she knew no deliberate magic anyway, and the only way she was capable to perform magic was by using it uncontrollably, as many magical youths unintentionally do.

Bathilda's eyes raked the kitchen she was sitting in. Knives. Kitchen knives. She rose, walked over to the knife rack, and selected two long, serrated ones. As Bathilda left the house, her vision was set only on what was ahead of her, the floor which lead her to the door, from which she exited for the final time. She would not look around, for the nostalgia was what she did not want to encounter.  
No more looking, no more longing.

The night air outside was cold.

It flooded onto her skin, raising goose bumps, causing a gentle shudder to run up her body. The air smelt damp and cold, prickling the inside of her nose. Her vision of the houses around her was crystal clear.

Bathilda was exceedingly aware of her senses.

She could feel her heart beat in her chest, the pulse in her neck and wrists, without even lifting a hand to them. What she did not feel was reluctance.

The wooden handles of the Goblin Silver blades were smooth in her hand.

She knew where to go.

At the end of the cul-de-sack, over a crooked fence lay the outskirts of a wood.

Bathilda trudged through the trees, on until she reached a clearing deep inside the wood. The clearing, fairly square, homed two wide, hollow logs either side of a small woodpile, a small box which she knew to contain matches and Muggle-style fuel tablets, and a circular patch of scorched dirt and ash.

Circle. An endless shape. Polished, smooth, no points and faults. An endless cycle, round and round, forever. An infinity less complex than the figure eight.

Before the death of her carer, Bathilda played here with her friends. She would have endless enjoyment, climbing and crawling through the logs, scrambling up trees, playing Exploding Snap, searching for gnomeholes. In winter, the father of her friend called Molly would come and light a fire and they would crowd around it, singing, warming, eating, toasting treats and making smores. Smiling. Laughing. Feeling happiness.

Bathilda now walked towards the centre, took some wood from the pile, stacked it in a pyramid-like formation, as Molly's father always had, placed a fuel tablet in some dry straw (also in the box), stuck a match, and lit up her own fire. Like every outdoor fire, patience was required to start it up. Bathilda thrived on every waiting second.

The flames began to rise, developing, flittering, crackling and casting flickering light across the clearing. Bathilda stepped back to sit on the log. It was damp, and the cold moisture of it seeped through her clothes and into her flesh, through to her bones, yet she did not shiver; she embraced it. She was only wearing some knee-length leggings, a t-shirt, and a jacket.

The earth beneath her feet was soft and damp. The log was damp. The air was damp. The sweet, beautiful smell of natural damp filled her, refreshing and clearing her head.

The fire was not damp. Its heat was dry and harsh.

She leaned forward, placing the knives with the blade in the flame. She watched them grow hot. She stared into the flames. They were bright and enchanting. Fire, the unexplainable substance – not solid, liquid nor gas. The blades eventually grew red, orange, yellow, white.

She pulled her leggings a little higher up her legs, exposing more skin, and removed her jacket

This was it.

It would hurt, as she intended. She would feel the life leach out of her body. She was scared, but this was good – this was what she wanted: the fear, the pain, the realism.

Bathilda Bagshot took a knife in each hand.

They would soon be dragging up her body.

The serrated edges faced her skin.

She brought them towards her.

The white-hot blades dug into the flesh on the bottom of her legs, cutting through, burning, and she dragged them upwards.

The intense pain engulfed Bathilda, steeling her breath, bringing tears to run down her face, and she let out an agonised screech before being robbed of all vocal ability as her lungs felt flattened by the raw hurt. Her vision was clouded almost immediately, her brain felt foggy, darkness was closing in and she was going to black out. She had collapsed sideways onto the log. In the frenzy of her mind, somehow she willed herself to remain conscious – if she passed out now, she would not yet die, but merely bleed and suffer from serious wounds.

She writhed in pain, rolling off the log and landing with a thud next to the fire.

Behind the trees, beyond Bathilda's notice, three children gasped and froze, petrified, at the sound of the scream. They then screamed in fear themselves, and took off at a run towards the clearing which they were familiar with, regardless of the direction the scream came from. Here they faced the horrific scene of a cut, bleeding, suffering 10-year-old, crying out.

As they reached the edge of Bathilda's sight, she murmured, "Molly?" before losing consciousness.


	4. Asleep

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NB: In case you do not understand, the non-italics writing is not her thinking. It is a voice from an anonymous source.

**The Dead Lady**

**4 – Asleep**

_I am falling. Where am I falling to? What am I passing? _

_Nothing._

_It's all just nothingness._

_Black._

_Everywhere is black._

_My mother's face emerges from the darkness, larger than life, larger than me… All grey. A grey face emerging from the darkness. Her blank eyes look right through me._

_As I watch, her face seems to solidify…like cold, hard stone. Lifeless._

_The air is suddenly sucked out of my lungs at the sight. A tear escapes my eye as air continues to rush past me. The face must be falling with me, at the same pace as me, as it remains level with me. I reach out, against the resistance of the air, but as I do, the face crumbles to dust._

_To ash. It must be ash, not dust._

_My heart sinks._

_My fall suddenly increases in speed, so my stomach jerks, giving the sensation that it is flying up towards my heart._

_As the rush of air increase, it is colder, making my eyes water._

_Faces flicker before me._

_These faces are not falling with me - they remain where they are as I fall past them._

_What is this?_

_I recognise some of the faces._

_They must be all of the people I have ever seen. There are many._

_I am sick of falling now. Come, on – I'm ready to reach the bottom of whatever this is._

_I can't. It's a bottomless pit._

_There is no end._

_There is no way out._

_Even if I die, I can never escape this._

_This is infinity. This is eternity. I can never un-exist. Dying is not an liberation. _

_But surely this is dying – what else could it be?_

Dying is when you hit the bottom.

_I start whirling around. _This is the point that the faces of everyone you've ever truly loved appears before your eyes, out of reach, but smiling._ Mother's face is back, still in the shadows. Still unobtainable. But in colour. Very saturated, but with slight evidence of colour. Evidence of life. And she smiles. She still does not focus on me; I am still invisible to her… But she is smiling._

_She remains with me for a precious moment. We are finally reunited. Then she goes. Flying upwards, as I continue downwards._

Now comes that person you never expected.

_Another woman appears. Dirty-blonde hair, bags under her eyes, thin, ill-looking. Scared-looking. _

_But this woman sees me. An arm appears, and she reaches out for me._

_Then her face contorts, and she starts to shriek, eyes popping, mouth stretched wide open…_

_And I know. It's her. I never actually knew her… but I know who she is. And she knows who I am. I am her offspring, the baby she left in the snow. But I am just that. I am not her daughter. _

_I scream with her. Her arm reaches me. I don't want her to touch me. Still screaming piercingly, her hand smacks into the top of my head. She is pushing me downwards._

And now you die.

_I speed up._

_Faster and faster, I am plummeting to the ground._

_Somehow, I can sense the ground coming nearer, though I can't see it._

_Everything is black. The bottom of this is a hard mass of solid air – no material can be used to describe it._

_And I smack into it._

But the ground isn't where you die, is it, Bathilda? I was lying. Because, as you pointed out yourself, even though death is inescapable, death is not an escape…


End file.
